


a good day for games

by angry-hash-browns (naehilisms)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I can, Confusion, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, big sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 15:27:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19406098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naehilisms/pseuds/angry-hash-browns
Summary: How can something so beautiful be so deadly?





	a good day for games

**Author's Note:**

> Caitlyn, you ask, why have you not posted for 2 weeks and only give us this trash fire? To that, my friends, I answer: idk

He can’t justify it.

All the thoughts stuffed in his bottled up brain are the same weak consolations, trying to convince him that he’ll be okay. He feels pathetic. What more can he do, though, then give himself vapid excuses to ease the pain? 

_ It isn’t my fault.  _

Of course it’s his fault. He’d felt the treacherous emotions boiling in his empty pot of a heart, sprouting spring green and fresh cut from the shell of those childish days before he’d ever understood what they meant. He should’ve done something about them. Isolated himself, or tricked his foolhardy soul to fall for another. He should’ve done that- but he was weak. He's always been weak. And he knew of the danger, knew that he would never be loved back and that cutting himself off was the most logical option, but he couldn’t. Because Hashirama was like a sunflower. Big, bright, guiding him to the light of the sun. How could he ever let go of that? Madara just wishes, as he stands bent over his kitchen table plucking bruised pink petals from his tongue, that he could’ve indulged himself a little longer. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s a bit difficult to hide the fact that flowers are growing in your lungs. 

Madara is familiar with the disease- Hanahaki, a condition where unrequited feelings manifest physically in ones lungs and grow, eventually posing a threat to the victim’s life if not removed. If the victim finds their affections returned, the flowers wilt away naturally. They can also be removed surgically, with risk of their ability to feel and their memory of the loved one being lost. 

Madara’s seen it happen before, and it always goes one of two ways. The victim is either “weak”, being buried six feet under with blood and petals scattered on their fingertips, or “strong”, ripping their hearts out of their chests and becoming cold and ruthless, the perfect shinobi. Their feelings are hardly ever returned. Madara had always viewed these people with disdain, confident that he, with his heart locked in a cage, would be free from the shackles of such an easily avoidable affliction. Yet here he was. 

“Madara,” Hashirama says with his sickeningly mellifluous tone, his head tilted slightly, “are you alright?”

Madara wheezes furiously into his clenched fist, forehead scrunched up as he desperately swallows down another influx of petals. “Yes, Hashirama,” he responds, “you nosey idiot, I’m fine. I just have… a cold.”

The look of concern Hashirama gives him with his stained glass eyes goes right to his heart, and he feels something squirm in his chest. 

“Alright…” the man mutters, turning hesitantly back to the other clan heads, “get some rest later, okay?” 

“Mmhm,” Madara hums, no longer confident in his ability to conceal the petals with. Slowly but surely, their concern leaves the atmosphere, and the rest of their group lapses back into negotiation, leaving Madara to drown in the background noise of his silence. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Madara curses, shoving handful after handful of damp pink petals down the toilet. “Damn it!” He mutters under his breath, “They shouldn’t be progressing so fast!” Hissing angrily, he plucks one final stray petal off of the cool wooden floor and flicks it into the bowl before getting rid of the entire pink cesspool with a satisfying  _ flush.  _ Out of sight, out of mind. Oh, the wonders of modern technology. 

He collapses against the toilet and heaves out a deep sigh, his fatigued lungs twinging out of spite.  _ Shit,  _ he thinks, running a nail through the cracks in the floor,  _ I’m running out of time.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“A new ramen place opened up on the edge of town,” Madara tells Hashirama as they stroll along the streets of Konohagakure. The verdant sounds of the bustling village resound all around them, sun smiling down in a clear sky. 

The man turns from waving at a child to look at Madara with that childish perk on his face. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I was thinking that we could-” Madara suddenly coughs mid-sentence, a hand automatically coming up to shield to his mouth. He tries to continue. “we could-“ to no avail, a sharp pain tears through his chest, and he keels over, face contorted in a horrible grimace. 

Hashirama whips around, hands wrapping around Madara’s torso to support him. His voice is suddenly dead serious. “Madara!”

Even as torrents of petals come up with his sporadic wheezes, Madara keeps his mouth slammed shut. He tries not to make eye contact as Hashirama places a careful hand on his chest and a look of understanding dawns on his face. “Madara…”

Madara shoves him away, head spinning. His breaths feel small, uncontrolled. His chest clenches uncomfortably. 

“Madara, what’s in your mouth?” Hashirama asks, his voice a bad kind of quiet that rises above the hubbub. 

Madara shakes his head.  _ Fuck! _

“Madara, please, open your mouth.”

Madara feels his eyes get watery at the desperation in Hashirama’s voice.  _ I don’t want you to hate me _ , he thinks,  _ Don’t make me do this without you! Leave me alone!  _ The contradiction in his pleading thoughts is almost hilarious.

_God,_ some put off voice in the back of his head snarls, _I can’t break like this in public! I can’t be_ weak _!_ _Stop!_ But anger, fear, desperation, the emotions and everything in him, they well up and it’s just too much. Petals come pouring out of his throat, pushing at his lips and spilling out in floods of disgusting pink that scatter, all bloody and rosey, between the cracks of his fingers. Desperately, Madara curls in on himself, cupping his hands uselessly around his lips as pink falls in clumps on the dusty dirt road. 

Everything goes quiet. 

_ Stay calm,  _ he tells himself.  _ Everything will be fine if you stay calm and stay logical.  _

He can feel everyone’s eyes drilling in the back of his head, hear the shocked utterings of his name on the tip of their tongues. 

Hashirama stumbles to his side and places a hand on Madara’s shaking back. “Shit- Madara-”

_ He’s warm,  _ Madara notes dizzily as he coughs up another few petals. Whether he knows it or not, Hashirama’s chakra is radiating gently from his hand, and Madara can feel his breath evening. 

“Madara, calm down-”

Madara wheezes out one last petal and finally breathes easy. “Yeah, yeah,” he says gruffly, tucking his tuft of hair back over his face. “I’m calm.”

“Do you need me to walk you home?” 

“I’m  _ fine, _ Hashirama,” he snaps automatically. 

Hashirama deflates. “Oh… okay.” 

Madara winces. “I’m sorry, I just need some time alone, okay?” Gritting his teeth, he takes off onto the roof of a nearby building before he can make the situation worse. Behind him, he hears Hashirama call faintly in protest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if u liked XpppppppppppP


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